Wander Everywhere
by ElouiseBates
Summary: Each of the Four has a unique encounter with one of Aslan's servants.
1. Chapter 1

_If we shadows have offended,_  
_Think but this, and all is mended,_  
_That you have but slumber'd here_  
_While these visions did appear._

_Wm. Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream

* * *

_

It was not common for the kings and queens to leave Cair Paravel without an escort, but nor was it unheard of. For in the Golden Age of the reign of Peter the High King, all Narnians knew and loved their overlords, and so would fight to the death to defend any of them from anyone or anything that might wish to harm them. Not, during the Golden Age, that there were that many creatures about that might wish to harm a king or queen, but one never knew when a stray hag or Calormene might be lurking about.

So it was, that bright summer morning, that Queen Lucy woke with the sun, greeting its bright face with her own radiant smile, and decided to breakfast in the forest. It had been ages since she had seen the dryads and fauns of the Long Wood—a week, at least.

So she dressed in her usual adventuring clothes (an old brown dress that could be girded up should she need to chase anyone or climb a tree, and as always the belt that bore her dagger and cordial from Father Christmas), informed one or two of the palace staff that she would be back before lunch, and left for the stables.

Normally Lucy preferred to walk (or run) everywhere. Susan had the best seat out of the Four; Peter and Edmund did very well indeed; Lucy, however, preferred to go on foot so she could stop and chat with people, or explore any little side paths that took her interest, or even just stop and dream for a few minutes if she so pleased.

Long Wood was too far to walk there and back by luncheon, however, and so it was that as the other three kings and queen rose from their rest, they beheld a golden-haired vision flying past their windows on a dappled mare, laughter riding in her wake.

"Lucy on another of her adventures," King Edmund said, and only those who knew him best could have heard the hint of envy in his voice.

The fauns were very glad to see their favourite little queen, and breakfasted her royally on goat's milk, berries, honey and fresh-baked bread. Lucy didn't—exactly—enjoy the goat's milk, but she knew it was considered a delicacy among the fauns, and so she drank it cheerfully.

After the post-breakfast dance (which made the milk churn quite uncomfortably in Lucy's stomach), the fauns scattered to their various pursuits, and Lucy was glad to sit beneath an Elm and chat with its dryad.

A giant goddess, she was speaking earnestly with the Human Queen about such important matters as the trimming of deadwood and prevention of leaf rot, when she suddenly paused, tilted her head, and then gave forth a rich, mellow laugh.

"Hullo, my Goodfellow," she said.

To Lucy's immense surprise, a boy about her own age bounded (rather like a squirrel) down from the top of the Elm tree to a branch just above Lucy's head.

"Hullo, Elm," he said with a cheeky grin. "Who's this?"

Lucy rose to her feet in an attempt to look as dignified as it is possible to look with goat's milk curdling in one's stomach.

"This is Queen Lucy," the Elm.

"Ah. One of the Daughters of Eve who broke the Witch's curse." The boy looked solemn, though from the look of him it was not an expression he wore often or well. "Our thanks."

"The thanks are due to Aslan, my friend," Lucy said softly. "My brothers and sister and I were merely his instruments."

"The King knows our gratitude," the boy said, and Lucy was sure he was not speaking of Peter.

He was dressed in garish colours—bright yellow tunic over vivid green hose, with a crimson belt around his waist. His eyes were an unusual golden brown, and out of his curly brown hair sprang two small horns, smaller even than the fauns' horns. Intrigued, Lucy gave a quick peek at his feet. They were human—and bare, even as hers were (she had left her soft boots over by her mare, the better to appreciate the soft summer grass).

"I am afraid I must cry pardon, good sir," she said. "For I do not believe I know you."

He bounded in one fluid leap from the branch to the ground before her, where he swept her a very low and magnificent bow.

"Robin Goodfellow, at your service, my queen."

"Thank you very much," Lucy said promptly. "I and my siblings are at yours."

Robin straightened from his bow and grinned rakishly at her. "There. That's the formalities over with."

Lucy couldn't help but grin back. He really was a charming fellow, no question. The Elm was regarding him with tolerant affection, so he had to be somewhat trustworthy, at least. She did wish, however, that she knew more about him than just his name, and that he served Aslan.

On the other hand, that last really ought to be enough.

"We have not seen you since our spring revels, Goodfellow," the Elm said. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there, madam, doing the King's bidding. You know how it is for we _longævi_. No rest, as they say, for us."

"I'm very sorry to interrupt," Lucy said, listening to this with interest. "But—that word you used …?"

"_Longævi_?" Robin said.

"Yes, that one. I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with it. You see," she added apologetically, "we have only been here for a few years, and we still have much to learn about Narnia and her inhabitants."

"Indeed, it would be my pleasure to elucidate!" Robin cried, turning a few cartwheels with such ease that Lucy was rather envious. Cartwheels were not easily attempted in a dress, however, and so she decided to forgo asking Robin how he did it.

"_Longævi_ is what we call ourselves," the boy said, coming upright and skipping merrily around the Elm. "The Humans have always called us gods and goddesses, though we are not the same as the Dryads and Hamadryads and Naiads, mind you. Nor are we Talking Beasts, nor Dwarfs, nor … what have I forgotten, Elm?"

"Giants," the Elm said promptly.

"Ah yes. Nor Giants, nor witches, nor fauns or satyrs, nor Marshwiggles." Robin looked thoughtful. "No one has yet to accuse me of being a Marshwiggle. I can't imagine why not."

Lucy suspected it had something to do with his constant movement and continual merriment, but she did not yet know him well enough to determine if that was something she could say aloud.

"Oh!" said the Elm. "Nor Stars."

"No, we are not Heavenly Bodies," Robin said. "We are very much of the Earth. Some of us are closer akin to the woods, and some to the waters, and some (but very few, for stone is hard and cold) to the mountains. None to the air. We are, as many others, Aslan's servants, placed here to help maintain the land. When the Witch came, she chased us out, but we are returning as we are able."

"You may have heard of some of them through the fauns," the Elm said. "Bacchus and Silenus and the Maenads. Pomona, as well, is one of the wood goddesses."

"Oh yes, Mr. Tumnus told me of them ages ago," Lucy said. "But we've never met any."

"No, nor will you, not unless Aslan himself is present. They are … well they're not _shy_ exactly, but they aren't very good around Humans. I mean, they're _good_, but they're not …"

"Not safe," Lucy finished gravely.

Robin nodded. "No, not particularly. They—we—are of the Wild, you see."

"Who are some of the others?" Lucy asked with curiosity. "The ones who are tied to the water, and the mountains?"

"There's Tethys, of course," Robin said. "And Carmentia and her Camenæ. I've even heard that Nereus is back, though I've yet to see him with my own eyes. Or smell him," he added, whisking back up the Elm and dangling upside down from his knees.

"As for the mountains, as I said, there aren't many. And they don't like their names bandied about, I'm afraid." Robin tried to look apologetic, but remorse is not an easy expression to convey when one is upside down.

"Well, no matter," Lucy said at once. "And you—where do you fit in amongst the …" she searched for just the right phrase. "The guardians of the Wild?"

"As I mentioned, I am a messenger. Aslan's servant, travelling about wherever he sends me, doing his bidding."

"Not always particularly well," interjected the Elm, sounding fondly maternal.

Robin wiggled his ears are her. "We all make mistakes, now and then."

"If you would spend less time playing your flute and pulling pranks …"

Robin dropped back to the ground and spread his hands wide. "No more lectures, Mother Elm, I beg of you. I promise to be a good boy, I do indeed. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends," he finished in a coaxing voice.

"I know you," Lucy said abruptly. "You're Puck."

For a moment, all humour dropped from Robin's face, and he looked a little less human, a little more Wild. "Yes," he said, looking at her sharply. Lucy found she could not stand to stare into those amber eyes for too long. "That is one of my names, though not usually used here. How did you know?"

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "It's like an itch behind my mind … I know I've heard of you, but I can't remember where or when or how. Except … not as Aslan's servant, but someone else's. Another King. Not a mortal one."

The alertness faded a little from Robin's face, and he shrugged, affable again. "To serve Aslan I must often serve others as well. Some are mortal, some are not."

"And why are you here now?" Lucy asked.

"To meet you, my queen," he said.

"Are you to return to Cair Paravel with me?" Lucy asked, brightening. He would be fun to have about.

He shook his head. "Not this time. Someday I will meet your siblings, and pay them my respects. Not today, though."

"I see." Lucy was disappointed, though not terribly surprised. A servant to Aslan would have very little time for playing. Almost as little as a queen, in fact.

"No, today Aslan merely wanted me to meet you, introduce myself, and explain a little about the _Longævi_. He said you and your brothers and sister ought to know who we are." His expression changed again, and suddenly the Elm coughed and said she had something she had suddenly remembered she needed to do, and faded back into her tree.

"He also said that there would come a day when he would send me to you with another message, one that would not be easy to hear, and that it would be easier for you to understand it if you had already met me once, and trusted me."

"Oh," Lucy said uncertainly. For a moment even her golden joy was shaken. What message could Aslan have that would not be easy to hear?

Then she thought of the Lion's face, and her confidence was restored. "Whatever Aslan has for us, we will take," she said, in that moment utterly queenly in her dignity and grace. "Whether it seem good or evil to us in the moment, we know that he does all things well."

"Aye," said Robin under his breath. "You'll do, lass. You'll do."

That sounded so odd, coming from a boy who looked no older than her, that Lucy laughed merrily. Robin joined her, and their combined mirth made music in the forest, rivalling even the birdsong for sweetness.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ I wrote this yesterday, not even realizing what time of year it was. Then today I was reminded that this is Midsummer's Eve ... when better to produce a story featuring none other than Robin Goodfellow, aka Puck?

I have been reading CS Lewis's _The Discarded Image_ recently; one of the chapters is on the _Longaevi_, also characterized as fairies. Lewis preferred not to use that term though (at least, not in a scholarly work) because of the more modern associations with fairies. From that one chapter sprang this idea. Lewis used many minor gods and goddesses in Narnia, borrowing liberally from many mythologies. I'm not sure why Puck, in particular, caught my attention, but I suppose because it seemed like he would be a good friend of Lucy's.

I've also been somewhat curious that never once during the Golden Age did the Four meet Bacchus or Silenus, judging by Lucy and Susan's exchange in _Prince Caspian_. Especially when, according to that same book, they did meet Pomona at least once. I love reconciling seeming incongruities; it's one of the reasons I write fanfic.

There will be a part two to this, in which Puck delivers Aslan's "unwelcome message."

Puck's line to the Elm about "restoring amends" is taken directly from Shakespeare. I didn't think he'd mind.


	2. Chapter 2

King Edmund was on a quest. Well, technically it was not a quest, since he was not seeking any one treasure in particular, but he felt that a quest sounded more dignified than what he was doing—simply exploring his realm.

For the first few years of their reign, the Four had been far too busy hunting down the leftovers of the Witch's brood, and then establishing laws and putting Narnia back in order, and then resuming diplomatic relations with the other lands nearby, to even think of anything else. Now, though, seven years into this Golden Age, they had a bit more leisure.

Looking at a map of Narnia one morning, Edmund's attention had been caught by the dearth of detail beyond Lantern Waste. A few lines indicating mountains, and then nothing except "The Western Wild," penned in Old Narnian script. He frowned, and a short while later King Peter had strolled into the library, only to stop short and blink.

"Great Scott, Edmund, it looks as though an earthquake has hit—or at the very least a horde of guinea pigs has trampled through here."

His brother's head popped up from behind the desk. He looked at the mound of parchment scrolls and old books with an abstracted expression.

"Hmm?"

"Mrs. Underhill will have your head," Peter continued, referring to their Head of Housekeeping.

Edmund's face cleared; he seemed to see the mess for the first time, and his face changed from disinterest to guilt to horror. "Oh no."

"What _have_ you been doing?"

Edmund rose from his position and dusted off his knees. "Looking for maps of the Western Wild."

"Why?"

"Well, think about it." Edmund began to tick points off on his fingers. "We know what's north, because that's where most of the Witch's army fled, and where we fought them. East of Narnia is the sea—that much is fairly obvious. South is Archenland, and then Calormen. What's to the west?"

"Why, that's—" Peter caught himself. "You know, I don't know."

Edmund shook his head. "Apparently, nobody does. And don't you think that it's the sort of thing we should know?"

"Absolutely," Peter nodded. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" Edmund didn't often look silly, but he did at that moment with his mouth hanging open.

"You're the one who discovered this problem, and you're the Count of the Western March. Naturally you are the one to go find out what lies beyond our borders to the west."

A large, sloppy, boyish grin spread across Edmund's face. "Really?" Usually Peter or Lucy went off adventuring. Susan and Edmund were far more apt to stay at the Cair, tending domestic matters.

Peter made shooing motions at him with his hands. "Go. Prepare. Take a few people along with you. You can leave at dawn tomorrow."

Edmund needed no further urging. He darted from the library with the speed of a striking snake, leaving Peter alone to face the wrath of their Hedgehog Housekeeper when she came along just a few minutes later.

To do him justice, had Edmund realised Peter was going to bear the brunt of the tirade, he would have stayed. He never knew, though. There were some things from which the High King still liked to protect his siblings.

* * *

According to Peter's direction, Edmund had set out the following morning with the sun's first light, accompanied by Ffoliatt the Talking Hound, Marcus the Satyr, Copper the Talking Falcon, and Lord Peridan the Human. They left Cair Paravel in high spirits (all except Ffoliatt, to whom high spirits indicated a frivolous mind—some said he was cousin to the Marshwiggles), particularly King Edmund, who had not been on a quest or adventure in some time. Not since he and Lucy had gone off to Archenland and somehow ended up trapped in a bog, where they surely would have sunk were it not for some friendly dryads who heard their cries and extended a few limbs to help them out, in fact. Peter and Susan had been most reluctant to let either of them out for months after that.

(That had been, actually, entirely Lucy's fault—she had seen an interesting flower and disregarded Edmund's warning about the shaky appearance of the ground, leaving him no choice but to follow—but Edmund was too much of a gentleman to allow her to take all the blame, even when she tried.)

The group travelled for one day and part of the night, only stopping when it became too dark for the Humans to see well.

"What do you think we shall find in the Western Wild, Sire?" Marcus asked eagerly, building up a small fire so they could cook the (Dumb) rabbits Copper had caught for them.

"I don't know," Edmund shrugged. "That's why we're exploring it. To find out."

"We should have brought a mongoose with us," Lord Peridan smiled.

"Have you thought of our path yet, King Edmund?" Ffoliatt asked.

"Well, I thought we could go right through Lantern Waste," Edmund said, though even as he answered he felt an odd reluctance to go through that thick wood. Somehow, it reminded him of … of that time Before, when he and his siblings were not yet kings and queens. He knew that was where they had first Entered, but he couldn't quite recall where they had come from. In any case, he preferred not to dig too deep at those memories.

Still, they had all been in the Lantern Waste many times—at least, the outer edges of it, as the inner part was thick with undergrowth and brush, and was not easily accessible—and had seen nothing unusual or out-of-place. So long as Edmund's group didn't try to go too far in, he imagined they would be just fine.

"And after that?" Peridan asked.

"Nobody knows what's beyond the Waste," Copper whistled. "Not even the Birds fly that far."

"Then it is beyond the Waste that our adventures will begin," Edmund laughed.

"Sooner, if I know anything about Narnia," Ffoliatt grumbled under his breath.

* * *

Rather disappointingly (at least to four out of the five), they encountered nothing remotely adventurous until the day they reached Lantern Waste. It was about teatime that they stopped before the thick, forbidding wood. There was a long pause.

"Shall we go in, Sire?" Lord Peridan asked, unhitching a long bramble from his clothing. "Er—" Edmund said.

"I would recommend against it," Marcus said. "It will be dark soon, and there's no guarantee that we will find a place to camp in there. If you would take my suggestion, King Edmund, we will make camp here and enter the Waste first thing in the morning."

"If you would take my suggestion, we would just go home," muttered Ffoliatt, but nobody paid any attention to _him_.

"Excellent idea, Marcus," Edmund said briskly, not wanting to indicate just how uncomfortable the Waste made him feel. Images and faded memories kept flickering behind his eyes, hints of another life brushing past his consciousness.

He was _Edmund_, King of Narnia, the one they called "the Just," (though that title had a tendency to horribly embarrass him), Count of the Western March … those grey pictures he kept seeing of a little boy in terribly uncomfortable clothing with a scowl on his face were _not_ him. They didn't belong to his life.

"Enchantments at work," he half-whispered, but it didn't feel like an enchantment.

Peridan was looking at him strangely, so Edmund shook his head and let the odd feelings dissipate into the air.

"Copper, feel like doing a bit of hunting?"

"Are you coming with me, Sire?" she asked. The Falcon was perfectly capable of hunting on her own, but she tended to prefer it with a Human companion.

Edmund laughed and held out his arm. "Let us be off."

She soared through the air and landed gracefully on his wrist, her claws gripping his sleeve lightly. With Dumb Falcons, they had to wear leather gauntlets to protect their skin, but Talking Birds were more careful.

"Take care, Sire," Ffoliatt warned. "We don't know who—or what—might be lurking around here."

"For once, I agree with the Hound," Peridan said. "Perhaps one of us should go with you."

"Nonsense," Edmund said. "Anything out there that's too much for me to handle will be no match for Copper. Right?" he asked the beautiful brown Bird.

She stretched her wings proudly and sent a chilling screech into the afternoon sky.

"Very good, then," Marcus said. "We'll have the camp ready when you return."

* * *

By nature, Edmund was a rather solitary creature. He certainly enjoyed his siblings and friends, but times like this, when he was out alone with only one companion by his side (and that one not much given to talking), were when he was most happy.

The two hunters skirted around the edge of the Waste, searching for any sign of game birds they could take down.

"It _is_ a grim wood, isn't it, Copper?" Edmund asked, keen eyes scanning the old gnarled trees.

She tilted her head on one side. "Perhaps to Humans, Sire."

"Oh, I don't know," said a new voice cheerfully. "I find it quite invigorating."

Copper took off into the air with a startled screech, her talons cutting into Edmund's wrist as she did so. Edmund whirled, wincing at the pain in his arm, and shocked that someone had managed to sneak up on him so easily. His uninjured hand dropped to his sword hilt.

"Who art thou, stranger?" he growled, his voice slipping easily into the formal speech the Four only used around foreigners.

The boy bowed shallowly, his curly head (with horns, Edmund noticed somewhere in the back of his mind) barely inclining. "Oh I say, I am sorry about that," he said, motioning to the bloody scratches on Edmund's arm. "I believe I've got some ointment or something that might help them heal."

Edmund's fist tightened around his sword, but he still waited to draw. "Thou didst not answer my question. Equivocate again, and I shall be forced to determine thou an enemy."

"Robin Goodfellow, at your service," the fellow said immediately. "Or rather, at Aslan's, but that does amount to much the same thing, doesn't it? Serve Aslan, serve his kings and queens, eh?"

Edmund's fingers relaxed slightly, but he did not remove his hand from his hilt, nor his eyes from this Goodfellow's face. "Servant of Aslan, are you?"

"As I said."

The barefoot boy did _seem_ trustworthy, but Edmund had learned long ago that some people were not always as they seemed. "Can you prove it?"

The boy tilted his head, mimicking Copper's position of moments ago. "Well, no," he said apologetically. "But answer me this: Have you ever known any evil creature to claim the Great King's service, or even speak his name without flinching?"

Edmund considered this. It was true: it would take a level of depravity far beyond even the Witch to be able to claim to do Aslan's work while actually doing the opposite. He took his hand off his sword entirely, and Copper came flying back to land on his shoulder.

"Hail and well met, then, Robin Goodfellow. And what might a humble king of Narnia do for you?"

"Not as trusting as his sister, but he'll do as well," Robin murmured under his breath. Edmund pricked his ears.

"Hast met my sister?"

Robin nodded and, now that he was no longer warily watching Edmund's sword hand, sprang into a blurring set of cartwheels. "Queen … Lucy," he said between revolutions. "Many … years … ago."

Lucy hadn't said anything about such a meeting, but then, though she had no secrets regarding herself, she was remarkably close-mouthed about her encounters with Aslan or his servants. She always insisted that if Aslan wanted them to know, he would make it plain.

"And now," said Robin, springing upright. "To answer your question. It is not, O Just King, what you can do for me, but what I am here to do for you. I bear you a message from the Lion."

Copper whistled in her throat, and Edmund's heartbeat picked up a little. "Is Aslan here?"

"No," said Robin slowly, looking at him as though he was especially thick. "That's why I am here."

"Very well," Edmund said, concealing both his disappointment and his annoyance. "What is the message?"

"The Highest of Kings commands that you abandon this quest."

Edmund straightened to his full height indignantly. "Abandon? The King of Narnia does not abandon any enterprise to which he hath put his hand, knave. To do so would be to disgrace his title, disgrace the very one who hath named him King."

"Would you instead disobey that one?" Robin asked, and his golden eyes were narrowed and his voice a menacing growl.

Edmund stopped. He bit his lip. To turn back after setting out to do something went against everything he and Peter had ever believed—but to ignore Aslan's voice was worse.

"Forgive me," he said, forcing the words out of his throat. "I will listen to what you have to say."

Robin grinned, and all air of threat dropped away from him like a cloak, leaving him a harmless lad once more. "Aslan bids me tell you that it is not for you to explore the lands west of Narnia. Nor shall anyone, for many generations. It is for you, and for your siblings, to guard, protect, and love Narnia. Leave the lands beyond to those who will come after."

Edmund burned to ask _why_ but he held his tongue and bowed his head. "It shall be as Aslan commands."

"Yes, somehow it always is, isn't it?" asked Robin grinning even wider. "I tell you truth, King, 'tis well for you that I have fond memories of your sister. Otherwise, I should rather have appeared to you as a guide, and led you about a round; through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier, until you had given up and gone home of your own inclination. Only for Queen Lucy's sake did I decide to give you a chance to heed the straightforward message."

"Churl!" whistled Copper. "Why would you have treated the King so?"

Robin shrugged. "It would have been amusing. This, less so, though perhaps Aslan will find it more satisfying."

Surprisingly, Edmund found himself grinning. Something about Robin's impish candour appealed to him. "Remind me to thank Lucy when we get back," he told Copper.

She bobbed her head once. "Aye, Sire."

Edmund turned back to thank Robin, only to find that person gone.

"A strange fellow, indeed," he murmured to himself, but Copper heard him.

"Goodfellow, Sire," she corrected him.

"Good fellow … yes, perhaps he is." Edmund shrugged, nearly dislodging the Falcon. "Come, friend, let us hie ourselves back to camp, and tell our friends we are returning to the Cair. Peridan and Marcus, perhaps, will be disappointed, but Ffoliatt, I am certain, will be delighted."

"Or as delighted as he ever is," Copper said.

"Indeed."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ So, um, I lied. This is going to have four parts, one for each Pevensie. As I contemplated this, I realized that I really needed to have Robin meet each of the Four. So ... up next, Peter, and then Susan.


	3. Chapter 3

In what proved to be (though naturally he did not know it yet) the spring of the final year of his reign, King Peter received a nocturnal visitor.

It was not usual for the High King to suffer from insomnia. Usually, by the end of the day, he was so exhausted from his duties that he fell asleep the moment his head landed on his pillow, much to the annoyance of his sister Queen Susan, who usually tossed and turned for an hour before falling asleep, and could not understand how all her siblings could enter slumber so easily.

This night, however, Peter could not sleep at all. He had a cold in his head, for one thing, and it is very difficult to sleep when one can't breathe through one's nose. For another, he had spent a great deal of time that day going over accounts with Mrs. Underhill, and every time he closed his eyes he still saw numbers dancing before him. It was a particularly jaunty dance, at that. Peter was quite certain they were capering to an Archenlandish tune, one that always got stuck in his head every time he visited the southern kingdom, and wouldn't leave him for weeks.

In other words, the High King was less than his usual charming self as he finally abandoned his bed and began pacing the corridors.

His peregrinations led him at last to the Cair's outer walls. He walked along, nodding a curt greeting to the guards on duty, who wisely did not greet their unusually grumpy king. He found himself, after a few brisk rounds, feeling marginally better, though not sleepy in the slightest.

He paused his frenetic exercise at the east wall, picking a shadowed spot between guard posts, where he could lean against the crenellations and not be seen. He breathed in the fresh salt air, revelling in its tang. Though he had lived by the sea for many years, its scent never grew old to him, always filling him with wonder and joy. Lucy felt the same; she said she never felt so free anywhere else. Edmund said that after a while he stopped noticing it, but he missed it whenever he travelled elsewhere in Narnia or beyond. Susan simply said it smelled and felt like _home_.

Peace was just starting to settle into Peter's soul when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a shape detach itself from the shadows along the wall and move toward him.

Not for nothing was the High King the most renowned fighter in the land. Though Rhindon was left in his chambers, he moved with eye-blurring speed to intercept the intruder. His dagger whipped out of its sheath, and his other hand snatched at the strange being's neck. Before the guards even knew something was wrong, King Peter had the stranger pinned up against the rough stones of the wall, dagger at his throat.

"Identify yourself," the king growled.

"With pleasure … once you let me … breathe," came the choked reply.

Peter eased off his hold just slightly, though not enough to let even an eel wiggle away. The Narnians may have considered this a Golden Age, but even so there were dangers to be found. Narnia was not a _tame_ land.

It was one of the reasons Peter loved it so.

"My name is Robin Goodfellow, servant to the Great Lion, Aslan himself, and his messenger."

The moon obligingly came out behind the clouds just then, and Peter was able to look at the fellow's face. It matched Edmund's description from a few years back, to be sure: the curly hair; the horns; the youthful features; the golden eyes; even the mischievous expression (despite having a dagger held to his neck).

"My brother spoke to me of you," Peter said.

"Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting King Edmund. He was at least as suspicious as you are, though not quite so quick to act."

Peter sheathed the dagger almost as swiftly as he had drawn it and gently set Robin on the floor. He offered his hand to shake. "Yes, my brother is far more apt to think before he acts."

"Whereas you act and think at the same time?" Robin grinned as he shook the king's hand in a very businesslike manner.

Peter smiled ruefully. "My sisters often claim I do not think at all."

Robin laughed. "I have had the same charge levelled at me from time to time, if you can believe it."

"I almost think I can," Peter said.

"Certainly sneaking up on the High King of Narnia in the middle of the night was not the brightest of my plans," Robin acknowledged. "But really, what is one to do? Do you realise, Sire, that you are never alone during the day?"

"I do," Peter said fervently.

"I had thought about approaching you while you were in the bath, but that didn't seem quite proper," Robin said. His prim tone stood in direct contrast to the merry look in his eyes.

"Ah well, all's well that ends well," Peter said easily. A troubled look entered his eyes, and his hand reached up to stroke his beard. "Where have I heard that before?"

Robin shrugged, but his movements were wary, a creature of the wild uncomfortable in civilisation.

"Robin Goodfellow … Puck?"

"The Queen Lucy called me that," Robin said, speaking quickly. "It is a name—I _think_ affectionate—by which some know me."

"That must be where I know it from," Peter said. That far-away look was still on his face, however. He was struggling to remember, to piece together those faint images and phrases that came to him at odd times. They had become fewer and fainter over the years, but every now and then they still came to trouble him.

"Well," he said, shaking the mood off. "You say you are Aslan's messenger. Have you, then, a message for me? Are you here to tell me why Aslan has forbidden us to travel beyond Narnia to the west?" The taste of adventure was in the High King's soul. Though it had never once crossed his mind to disobey Aslan's edict, he had found himself wondering many times over the years just _what_ was beyond the Lantern Waste, _why_ Aslan had forbidden them to explore it, and _when_ the the Lion would lift the restriction.

Robin's breathing settled back down into a steady rhythm. "As I told your brother when I met him, several years ago, you have had enough to do in Narnia itself. There are lands—unfriendly lands—that are better off not knowing of Narnia and her happy inhabitants. There are also places in the west Aslan does not want you see yet."

"Yet? Then we will be able to see them sometime?" The light of adventure burned yet brighter in King Peter's eye, and all mention of unfriendly lands had flown by him.

"There is nothing that will remain hidden forever," Robin said obscurely. "Someday—perhaps after Time—you will see it all."

"You mean in time," Peter corrected.

"I mean what I say," Robin said proudly. "Always. But all this is not why I am here."

Peter leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Something told him he wasn't going to like what Robin was going to say. His brow lowered. "Speak, servant of Aslan."

"The Lion bids me tell you that your time in Narnia is nearly at an end."

Peter felt as though he had just received a vicious blow to the stomach. He gasped for air. "What?"

"The Lion bids me tell you that your time in Narnia is nearly at an end," Robin repeated, with exactly the same emphasis and tone.

Peter found his legs were no longer capable of holding him up. He slid gracefully down the stones until he was seated on the floor. Robin promptly say down cross-legged across from him.

"I am to die, then."

"No!" Robin looked surprised. "Did I say so? I am quite certain I did not say _that_!"

"What do you mean, then?" Peter looked and sounded quite cross, as one is apt to do when one has suffered an unpleasant shock, especially in the middle of a sleepless night, when one has much to do the next day (and the day after, and the day after that, and so forth).

Robin brought his hands together. "Look." He spread them wide, and a faint picture appeared between them, shimmering eerily in the moonlight. Peter leaned forward, fascination overcoming horror, and watched the moving, flickering image. As he did, memories that had only lived in his least-remembered dreams flooded back to him in full force.

After a few moments, he leaned back again grimly. "So. We are to return to That Place."

"You are." Robin looked sympathetic. "I am sorry. You see, I know it, too, as few others in Narnia do. We of the _Longævi_ are among the only servants of Aslan's that have the ability to travel between worlds, though yours is one to which none of us ever care to go. I would wish that you never had to go back, were it possible to want something for you that was against Aslan's will."

"Did he tell you why we must leave?"

Robin shook his head. "Merely that the time has come, and you are to take up the threads of your old life, weaving what you have learned here into that tapestry. You came not just for Narnia, you know, but also for yourselves."

"I don't understand," Peter confessed, and he felt no shame. Even a king … even a High King … could not be expected to grasp everything all the time. No man could ever have all the wisdom of Aslan.

"You will," Robin said. "Someday."

He rose gracefully to his feet again, and Peter followed suit, still leaning heavily against the wall for support. If it was Aslan's will, then he would accept it unflinchingly, but it was still hard to bear. And how would he break it to his siblings? Lucy would weep, but she would hold her head high and obey Aslan. Edmund would wrestle with it, and eventually accept it better than all of them. Susan … ah, this would break his sister's heart. Not that she loved Narnia more than the rest of them, but her love was of a different sort; her heart was more fragile. Not for nothing was she called the Gentle.

"One more thing," Robin added. "Two, actually. The first: you will not remember this conversation in the morning. You will forget you ever saw me until you are back in the Other Place, at which point you will recall it all."

"Why?" Peter asked simply, wrenching his thoughts away from his fellow sovereigns.

"A small gift from me to you," Robin said. "I see no need to spoil the short amount of time you have left with dread for the future. Life will continue for you as usual, up until the very moment you have left. Or returned, depending on ones point of view."

"Thank you," Peter said. Edmund no doubt would have protested, wanting to know every detail so that he could prepare for the departure, but Peter possessed the happy gift of living in the moment, enjoying each day as though it truly was his last. Fretting about the future was not something he cared to experience. Robin's gift of forgetfulness would be an immense burden lifted.

"And the second?" he asked after a moment, recalling that Robin had said there were two more things.

"Ah, that. From Aslan himself: Remember that once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen."

Peter puzzled over that for a few moments, then tucked it away to bring out and examine at a later time.

"Thank you," he said again. "May I … might I ask a question?" It was a humble enquiry, sounding odd coming from this large and powerful man.

"A question, you may ask. An answer, I will give if I may."

"Narnia … will she be all right once we are gone? Will they know what happened to us? Will they be protected from harm?"

"Have no fear, King Peter. Aslan loves Narnia even more than you do. He has always had his paw upon it. What happens next is story yet to be written, but I can assure you that Aslan will not abandon his people. Whatever happens, it will be for their best." Robin hesitated, and then added, "Though I probably should not tell you this, I can at least assure you that they will know you did not leave deliberately. One way or another, Aslan will tell them that he sent you Back; you did not desert them."

"Thank you," Peter said one final time. He could leave, if not happily, at least with a clear conscience, knowing he was not abandoning his people to despair and misery.

"You are most welcome, High King." Robin shook off his solemn air, as though he had worn it as long as he possibly could and leapt agilely to the top of the crenellation. "And now I needs must bid you farewell, for I am the merry wanderer of the night, and I have much work to be done. In other words, I must visit each of your siblings before the night is over, and impart to them the same message I brought to you. As High King, you heard it first, but all must know, and then all must forget, and later all will remember again."

With that, he sprang from the wall like a cat, and Peter, rushing to the side, saw him skipping from stone to stone, whistling merrily as he went.

The High King was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He returned to his chambers (using a more conventional route than Robin) and fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

And when he woke to a bright and beautiful day, he had no memory of ever having met that strange Goodfellow, called Puck, at all.

Nor would he remember for many long days, not until he had been Back in the Other Place for nearly a week. Then, waking up one night from a restless sleep (how he missed the steady rest he had when he was king!), it all flooded back, and it did, in fact, bring much comfort.

It wasn't long after that that the memories of Narnia started to fade a bit, to become more like happy dreams, tucked away to look at and delight in, but not to bring misery and sorrow. Above all, Peter clung to the final promise of Aslan's, imparted to him by Puck:

"Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen."

It meant, so the High King hoped, that someday, in some way, they would go back. In the meantime, he would do his best to learn whatever it was here that Aslan wanted of him, to remain a Narnian though in England, and to never forget the bright land of which he was High King.


	4. Chapter 4

She was, Susan was quite sure, dreaming. She distinctly remembered going to bed in her room, in her house, and now she was standing in the middle of a sun-dappled forest glade, listening to birds singing and squirrels scolding, with a light breeze causing the trees to whisper secrets just out of her understanding.

Besides, she was wearing the most beautiful gown she had ever seen—certainly not her old nightgown. This was long, with a full skirt that swept around her bare feet (the grass was so soft underfoot, she did not even miss her shoes), and sleeves that fit close to her arm to the elbow, at which point they flared out and drifted past her fingertips.

_Terribly impractical_, her mind wanted to whisper, but Susan ignored it. She smoothed the smooth silver silk over her hips and smiled instead. She'd always loved looking at pictures of dresses such as these, in old medieval romances and the like. Sometimes, she loved them so much she could almost _see_ herself wearing something like them, as though a remembered dream.

This dream, however, was much better than any faint, false memory. Susan looked around. Aside from the birds, the squirrels, and the trees, she was alone. She wondered what was supposed to happen now. Should she walk away from the glen, search out adventure? Or stay there and wait?

Perhaps a unicorn would come find her? Though as the mother of two and grandmother of five (the youngest, her namesake, barely two weeks old), she was hardly a _maiden_ anymore. Still, this was her dream, and anything was possible in dreams. She reached up to touch her hair, pulled it over her shoulders to look at its colour. Ah yes, it was black again.

She had never regretted a single one of her grey hairs. They were badges of honour, marks of wisdom. Some—many—of the women in her generation coloured their hair, trying desperately to regain some sign of their youth. That was a folly Susan had left behind many, many years ago. Age was nothing to be feared or despised. Gracious old age was a gift, not a burden.

Yet even with all that, she could not deny how pleasant it was to see her hair returned to that glossy midnight hue. She patted her face with her hands and found many (though not all, which did please her) of her wrinkles had smoothed themselves out. Her laugh lines remained, those crinkles at the corners of her eyes, but the wrinkles that time and worry had wrought her vanished.

Dreams like these were far better than any of those foolish creams and powders advertised for making one look young again, Susan thought scornfully. None of those could distinguish between _good_ wrinkles and bad, simply removing all of them the same. She gently touched her skin again. Yes, thankfully the dream had had the sense to leave some behind. These lines came when she laughed through her tears at the birth of her children; the first time joy touched her life after the Great Sorrow; when her husband-to-be slid a ring onto her left hand; when she held her first grandson and was given the privilege to bequeath upon him the name of her beloved elder brother … no, she hoped she would never lose these lines.

The other ones, the ones that simply came from too much worry, too much living in a world that was ugly, those she was glad to see gone.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," said a merry voice, and Susan raised her eyes to see an impish face surrounded by green leaves peeking at her from the branches of the nearest beech tree.

She recognised it at once, though it had been a lifetime ago since she had last seen it, and that meeting had not ended happily. With that recognition also, everything else slid into place, and memories she had thought long since buried rose again to the surface.

"Robin Goodfellow," she said slowly. "I have not been called 'Majesty' in many a long year."

One golden eye winked, and a small, lithe body dropped down in a shower of leaves and beechnuts to stand before her. The lad placed his hands on his hips proudly.

"Queen you were, Queen you are, and Queen you always will be."

"So," Susan said, looking around, "I have taken to visiting Narnia in my dreams, have I?" She knew this place now. This was a glade near Cair Paravel, just an hour's ride away. She and Lucy had always enjoyed bringing a picnic lunch here on the rare days they could sneak away from their duties and just be sisters. "I don't recall ever seeing you here, Robin."

He shrugged. "I did come watch you and your sister occasionally, but I took great care you never saw me."

"Spying, were you?"

"Observing," he said primly, and then burst into uproarious laughter.

Susan couldn't help but smile back at him; his cheekiness was engaging. "And why am I here now? Why are you here? I've taken great care to leave Narnia behind. I haven't even thought of it in years."

"Why is that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"And if I do mind?" Susan's voice and stance were suddenly very regal. Strange, how one could fall back into old habits as though no time at all had passed, when one had returned to a certain place.

"Why, I'll ask anyway!" Robin wiggled his nose impudently and flipped over backward.

Susan relented. There was clearly no point in being cross with this mischievous creature. Besides, it was a dream, and in dreams one could say and think things one would never care to do in waking life.

"At first," she said slowly, "I wanted to forget for myself. Then it became too hard to remember, because of how it reminded me of … them. And then … well, after a while I didn't need it any more. I finally understood what he—the Lion had told us, Peter and me, on our final trip. I found him in England, and that was all I needed."

"Ah, but he did not bring you here to Narnia just for it to be part of your childhood," Robin said, his words somewhat muffled as his face was pressed into the grass behind his legs. He finished his flip and stood upright before her, his cheeks flushed from exertion. "Narnia was meant to enrich your adult life, too. After all, once a Queen of Narnia, always a Queen of Narnia. Even in England."

Susan was suddenly very tired of this. "Robin Goodfellow, why am I here? What is the point of this dream?"

"I am sent, Queen Susan, to help you remember," Robin said. He held out his hand. "Come."

Susan did not move. She looked distrustfully at those slender brown fingers. "Where?"

"Why, don't you trust me?"

"Not a bit," she said frankly. He grinned.

"Then trust the one who sent me."

Susan had been trusting _him_ for many years now. She reached out her hand and took Robin's.

"Let us go."

* * *

Susan gasped. Back in England, back in her childhood home … she and Robin stood to one side, as unnoticed as Ebenezer Scrooge and the Christmas Ghosts in Dickens' tale, as a younger version of herself argued with a beloved brother gone these many years. Mercy, she had forgotten how very young Peter had been. Somehow she always saw him as his adult self when she thought back, Peter the High King instead of Peter her brother.

"You can't just turn your back on it all, Su!" Peter said, that familiar note of exasperation in his voice causing her heart to ache. Ah, how she missed him—missed all of them, still, after all these years. The joy she had found in her husband, children, and grandchildren still couldn't quite make up for that loss.

"That is what he told us to do, isn't it?" Then-Susan countered, lashes cast down to hide her eyes—and thoughts—from an all-too perceptive Peter.

"He told us to find Narnia here, to seek him in _this_ world," Peter said. "He didn't mean for us to pretend it never existed."

"You don't understand," Then-Susan said, the bitterness in her voice evident even to the two invisible listeners. "If I can't have Narnia, the _real_ Narnia, I don't want any English substitute! I want to be back there, Peter, back in Cair Paravel, in our time, not Caspian's, with Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers, and Corin and Lune, and all our friends. I don't _want_ to hear about Edmund and Lucy and Eustace (Eustace, of all people! Why should _he_ get to go when we can never return?), and the wonderful time they had, not if I can't ever go back myself."

Susan felt tears well up in her throat. She still remembered the raw pain of feeling abandoned, cast out by the Lion, given a wonderful gift only to have it snatched away.

"It will break Lucy's heart if she can't share this with you," Peter warned.

Then-Susan turned away. "My heart has already been broken," she muttered. "Why should everyone else be spared?"

Peter put his arm around her, and the two walked away, Then-Susan finding comfort in her brother's strong embrace.

"I agreed to listen," Susan said to Robin, watching the pair fade into the distance.. "I let Lucy and Edmund and Eustace tell me all about their adventures, and I pretended to care. Then when Eustace came back with Jill at the next holiday, and they were full of _their_ latest adventure, I listened to that, too. Anything to stay a part of their lives. Eventually, though, the opinions of my 'friends' became more important to me than sparing their feelings, and I let them know exactly what I _truly_ thought of their 'silly game.'"

"And what brought you back?" Robin asked, even his merry impudence softened.

"The Great Sorrow," Susan said, capitalising it as she always did, even in her head. With those words, she watched the scene around her fade to grey and then brighten to a new place and time.

* * *

A graveyard, quiet and serene. Nine flat stones, laid close to each other. A young woman, her black hair bound closely to her head in a simple braid, her face ravaged with tears, kneeling before them in utter despair.

"I was broken," Susan said softly, heart aching anew at the pain she had felt then. "I thought, when we were cast out of Narnia, that I would never feel pain like that again. Then he took my family and true friends, and I realised that losing Narnia had only been an echo of the pain I felt now." She crossed noiselessly over the clipped grass to stand above her younger self. She looked at the first two stones.

"Harold and Alberta wanted Eustace in their family plot, and Jill's family wanted her with them, but I insisted that they all remain together in death as they were in life."

She had never liked Eustace, even after his Change, but she had been fond of the small, pretty, laughing Jill. She had even toyed with the idea of trying to matchmake between her and Edmund, but neither had been interested. Foolish children, she had called them, not realising that she was the fool for trying to force a beautiful friendship into something it was never meant to become.

Lucy … golden, glorious Lucy, a lioness to the end. Valiant they had called her in Narnia, and valiant she had always been. Even now Susan couldn't see her sister's name etched in cold stone, so different from her living light, without a lump growing in her throat. She quickly moved to the next two stones, her brothers lying side by side.

"Edmund, quiet and thoughtful. Peter, mighty and brave. Two sides of the same coin, brothers and best friends, and both so dear to me. Losing Edmund was like losing an arm, and losing Peter was like losing part of myself.

"Mum and Dad," on to the next two. "They never knew about Narnia, but they helped all of us find truth and joy here. All but me."

"Ah, but they did help you," Robin said. "It just took you longer to understand their words, that is all."

He had been so uncharacteristically quiet that Susan had almost forgotten his presence. She graced him with a quick smile and moved on to the final two stones.

She had never talked to the Professor much … in truth, he frightened her a little, with his philosophical ponderings and contempt for today's schools. But she had admired him, and knowing that she had lost his respect had been one of the hardest things about cutting herself off from the Friends of Narnia.

Aunt Polly, now … Aunt Polly had been both confidant and mentor, until Susan started rejecting the older woman's wisdom in favour of her peers' opinions.

"After the funeral, I went home and looked at my vanity and everything scattered across its top, and remembered her final exasperated words to me," she said aloud. "'Growing up isn't about makeup and parties and flirtations, girl,' she said. 'Growing up requires sacrifice, and hard work, and _love_, and faith.' I'd dismissed her at the time—what could an old maid like Aunt Polly know?—but after that, I knew she was right."

All the time she had been thinking _she_ was the mature one, and her brothers and sister, cousin and friends were childish, and yet she had been far more foolish and immature than they ever dreamed of.

"You did maybe carry it a _bit_ too far," Robin said with a twist to his mouth, looking at the girl dressed in ugly, uncomfortable clothes, clearly doing penance as best she knew how.

"I was very young," Susan said. With age, she had learned even to forgive herself, and to look back on all her experiences as useful, rather than embarrassing. "I learned moderation in time … that one can have beauty _and_ goodness, that growing up doesn't have to be painful and ugly, that one can live a life of joy without being frivolous."

She turned away as her younger self rose and stumbled away to the waiting car. "I am not just here to remember, am I, Puck." It was not a question.

The _Longævi_ bowed his head. "No."

"I am dead."

He nodded.

Susan nodded too. She had suspected it ever since she had remembered Narnia. "Well, it was at least a painless way to go, asleep in my bed. Why am I here, then?" She would have expected to go right to Heaven.

"You have lived too long believing that the two parts of your life were separate—Narnia and England," Robin said. "You finally remembered Narnia, and recognised the Great King when you found him in England, but then you promptly put it behind you. I was sent to help you remember again, to remind you that you are a part of both England _and_ Narnia, and they are a part of you. You cannot enter True Joy while trying to leave a part of you behind."

Susan breathed in deeply. Narnia had been part of her childhood. England was her adult life. Narnia had prepared her for life in England. How now could she reconcile … Her head snapped around, the breath left her body in a rush, and her eyes pierced Robin.

"Do you mean I can go back to Narnia now? _My_ Narnia?"

"No, daughter," said a never-forgotten voice behind her. "You have come home to my Narnia."

The graveyard faded around her, and Susan and Robin were back in the Narnian glade. Only now, they were not alone. He was there, even more glorious than Susan remembered him, his golden light filling the air, brighter than the sun. The trees around him bent their limbs toward him, as though straining to brush his fur with their branches, wanting only to touch him.

Susan fell to her knees, never once minding the grass stains on her beautiful silken skirt. "Aslan."

"Welcome home, daughter," he said, his eyes filled with warmth and love. "You have wandered far, but you are come home at last."

"I have been such a fool in my life," Susan said humbly. "I don't deserve this."

"None do," Aslan told her. "I give it because I love you, as I have given everything in your life."

Leaving her a few moments to ponder that, he swung his head toward Robin. "Well done, my faithful servant."

Robin bowed. "It was easier this time, Lord. She didn't throw things at me."

"Oh dear," Susan said involuntarily. She had almost forgotten that.

"It's all right," Robin reassured her. "I ducked."

"Now, daughter," Aslan said to Susan. "Come, ride on my back. I take you to those you have waited long to see."

Susan thrilled to that statement. Old woman that she was—and yet was not—she felt just like a girl again as she eagerly climbed on the Lion's back. Just before he crouched to leap away, she remembered Robin.

"Thank you," she told the boy.

He grinned and bowed, turning it into a flip at the last moment. "You are not rid of me so easily, Your Majesty. I go before, a herald for the Queen's arrival."

"Lead us on, my Puck," Aslan said, and Susan heard the warm amusement in his voice.

"Follow me, then, to plainer ground!" Robin cried, and he took off running. Aslan leaped after him, and Susan laughed aloud with joy.

For after all her wanderings, she was, at last, _home_.

* * *

**Author's Note**: And so, my friends, we come to the end of our tale. Scattered throughout these chapters are various quotations borrowed from Shakespeare. Many thanks to all who have reviewed, most especially to Miniver, with whom I've been discussing Planet Narnia, Susan, and other matters.

I hope, wherever your wanderings take you, fair readers, that your feet always lead you home in the end.


End file.
